


Duality

by peggycarterisacat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, I have no idea wtf I'm doing, Miranda Lives AU, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death (because time travel), Time Travel Fix-It, plz send help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: Ten years after Charles Town, Abigail sees a familiar face on the road to Bristol.When she next wakes, she is back in her cell under Fort Nassau, with far too much guilt over what lies ahead.





	1. Chapter 1

When the small inn's proprietor sat her down, a serious expression fixed on her face, Abigail braced herself to be told that no accommodation could be found for her in the nearly empty inn — and she seethed at the idea that even now, a decade later, Ned Low and Charles Vane and James Flint were enough to leave a lasting stain on Abigail Ashe's reputation.

When instead, Mrs. Hawkins delicately told her that the inn's other guest was "a sea-captain, and very coarse in his manners," Abigail was so relieved that she almost laughed.

"It's quite alright," she'd said, trying to keep the wry tone from her voice, "I was frequently around sailors when I was young. I doubt there's much he can do that will shock me."

"If you're sure, Miss," Mrs. Hawkins said. "I only thought that, with a young charge..."

Nora, Abigail's young cousin, accompanied her on this journey. She was theoretically under the care of a much older brother who showed little interest in raising a child not his own, so Abigail tried to take an interest.

Abigail had been sheltered as a child, yes, but her parents had never spoken down to her as if she could not understand, had never expected her to be seen and not heard. That had all changed after Mother died and Father left for the Americas, and Abigail still remembered the burn of that frustration. Nora was a bright girl, but had learned to be timid. Abigail was determined to undo as much of that as she could.

As much as Nora blossomed with the attention, parts of Abigail's life in London weren't the most appropriate for a girl of ten. She did not have Abigail Ashe's limitations, and with any luck, would never have to know the lengths to which Abigail went to listen and learn and have her voice heard. To foster friendships she had not been able to find in the society she had been raised in.

But traveling together — that was something she relished. The wonder and excitement of a young girl seeing the world for the first time was a beautiful thing.

"I believe that meeting people from all walks of life teaches compassion, even if they are rough around the edges. Better that it happens when I am here than when I am not," Abigail said.

Mrs. Hawkins nodded, but the set of her mouth said that she didn't entirely agree. "It would be difficult to navigate that alone, I suppose," she allowed.

That was an accurate statement. Sometimes Abigail wasn't sure she had navigated it correctly herself.

She'd had very little guidance since her return to society. Some of her parents' friends had taken pity on her — the old ones, the ones who remembered her mother, not the ones who only wanted to curry favor with Lord Ashe, Governor of the Carolina colony — but though they were good to her, none had understood her lack of interest in marriage, or in repairing Abigail Ashe's reputation.

She had money and a title. The day she realized she didn't have to keep company with anyone unless she wanted to was the day she broke with society and stopped trying to impress people who so obviously disdained her.

She had never expected to marry for love; hoped, perhaps, but not expected. But she refused to marry without respect and there were not many people in England who respected her. Not after Charles Town. Spending weeks unchaperoned and in the company of pirates was bad enough, but to those who knew the rest of the story, it was her own words that had truly condemned her.

Still, she would always stand by those words.

When she looked back, as she often did, that time in her life inspired more confusion than regret.

Part of her was ashamed to admit it, considering the chaos it had sown in the lives of so many, but Abigail missed the sound and the smell of the sea. Her time at sea had been a time of growth, insight, and rebirth, which had shaped the very course of her life. She had been changed by the experience. Even now, years later, she struggled to accept all that had happened — that the men she met were men and not monsters, and yet those men were still capable of monstrous things.

Flint, McGraw, whoever he was— she had felt for him; her heart had ached for the injustice done him, the pain he must have endured. Her own father— she still could not reconcile the loving man who raised her with the man who could so callously betray those he had once called friends. The men of the crew— the sad story of the man called Billy— the countless stories of men forced by rough circumstances into a life they would not otherwise have chosen.

And yet Charles Town had burned, and the men she thought she had come to understand had done it; and that begat a storm of terror that worked its way down the coast.

Despite all of the memories and turmoil the sea brought with it, there was something compelling about it, some nostalgia Abigail couldn't quite resist. The memory of those few, strangely happy, days by Lady Hamilton’s side; of lingering glances shared with a handsome man; of having her eyes opened to a side of humanity she had long held in ignorance.

“Shall we walk along the cliffs?” she asked Nora, who nodded eagerly. Though Abigail suspected she would soon become bored in this small town on the road to Bristol, Nora was still at the age where she had seemingly boundless energy. The excitement of being out of her brother's house might sustain her for a few days while Abigail got some much needed rest from the press of the city.

But as they descended the stairs and crossed the parlor, the shadow of a man appeared in the doorway— so tall and broad that something like recognition flickered through her mind. Curiosity compelled her to look up into his face, and there she saw the ghost of a man she once knew. Clear blue eyes, the solemn set of his mouth, the sharpness of his jaw hidden behind an unfamiliar beard.

The words left her lips without thought. “Billy Bones?”

“That is not my name,” he said, his voice a rough growl, but he looked down at her. It was him. Would he not recognize her, after all? She did not think she had changed much, but still years had passed — after a moment’s scrutiny, he knew her. “Abigail Ashe?”

She nodded faintly, and had to sit down. Nora clung close to Abigail’s arm, even as she wavered on the edge of fleeing from Billy’s imposing figure. The thought struck her strangely: that once he had been gentle around her, careful not to crowd her or cause her discomfort. Now, he loomed, his very presence like that of a storm, and Nora quailed behind her.

“Won’t you sit?” Abigail asked, her voice growing strong again. “It’s been so long.”

For a moment, he did not move, casting a wary look over her, but then he stepped closer and sank into a chair by the fire. Her eyes wandered his face in the firelight — she was aware she must be staring, but the more she looked, the more she realized that he was not the same man she had known. He looked old — older than the years had any right to make him — and tired, and weather-beaten. A certain callousness had settled into his eyes and the lines of his face, and his every movement spoke of mistrust.

She was at a loss for what to say. They had known each other only briefly, and the gulf of years apart must outweigh whatever had once passed between them. “This is Nora— Eleanor,” she introduced. For her part, Nora came out of hiding to nod to him and attempt a smile, and she did not shrink back again until—

“You named your daughter _Eleanor_?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“She is my cousin,” Abigail said, looking up at him unafraid. For a long time, she had dreamed of a daughter named Miranda, but by now she knew that was a future that would never come to pass. “And she was already christened by the time I met Eleanor Guthrie.”

Eleanor deserved to be remembered with kindness, Abigail thought, or at least remembered at all. To anyone who hadn't known her, she was but a footnote in history, if that; the dead wife of Governor Rogers. If not for the particular scandal raised around that man and his debts, Eleanor's memory might have been lost entirely — a fate that struck Abigail as painfully unjust. She had been a formidable woman — the ruler of Nassau for years, the one who had tried to save it.

Now remembered only as an accessory to a man's name.

A darkness lurked in Billy’s gaze as he met her eyes evenly, but it passed. With a hesitancy that seemed out of place with the rough way he presented himself— “William Manderly,” he introduced himself, eyes flickering to Nora.

"We met many years ago, when I was in the West Indies," Abigail explained.

Nora's eyes, wide with curiosity, darted between the two of them, and she got over her shyness enough to ask, quietly, "You were in the West Indies?"

"About ten years ago, now," Abigail answered, deciding how much to tell. Nora was still so very young. "I was waylaid on my way to visit my father in Carolina."

Billy threw his head back and laughed. "Damn, but you have a talent for understatement."

Nora’s hand found hers, and she looked up at Abigail with alarm. “Mr. Manderly,” Abigail said, giving him a stern look.

He only looked slightly mollified. “I apologize, Miss Nora,” he said, at least.

Nora hesitated, curious but obviously uncomfortable in Billy’s presence. Abigail squeezed her hand gently, and she looked up at Abigail as if asking permission. At length, she asked, “How did you meet?”

“He rescued me from—” she started to say—

At the same time, he said, “She was a passenger on our ship—”

They both stopped and looked at each other. “I’m not alone in a talent for understatement,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“We did no rescuing,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, and the look he cast over her was distant, dispassionate.

No, that had been Eleanor, she supposed. But still — without all of the men, she would not have had her freedom.

More words did not seem forthcoming from him, so to fill the space she said, “The news we get from the New World is often delayed, incomplete. Some names I recognized from—” She stopped. From reports of hangings, mostly. “But I never heard anything of you.”

“Looking for news of me, were you?” he asked with a crooked smile that held no real warmth.

“For all the crew,” she answered, “But—” her breath caught in her throat for a moment— “Yes.” Yes, she had looked for his name. Though she had not been looking for the name William Manderly — if that was indeed his true name. She'd had the thought that Bones must be a false name, but she had no other to search for. "What of the captain, the rest of the men?"

He didn't answer, but passed a hand over his face to rub at his temples before calling for rum.

Jim Hawkins, lingering by the bar, looked conflicted. “The doctor said—” he tried to protest.

“Fuck what the doctor said,” Billy growled.

Nora’s grip tightened on Abigail’s hand— “I think I’ll— go—” she said, and retreated upstairs.

“I’ll be up in a moment,” Abigail assured her as she departed.

Abigail turned back to Billy, frowning. She wasn’t quite sure how she would explain this to Nora — sailors’ rough manners, she might understand. But that this man had once been a friend, perhaps something more in the most secret part of her heart, and he now treated them with little apparent consideration… That might not be so easy to explain.

Perhaps foolishly, she still wanted to keep the world's true cruelties from Nora for as long as she could, and she feared Billy's story was one that could not be fully understood without all those details.

He drained half the rum as soon as it arrived, and watched the rest of it swirl in the glass.

“I realize that we have lived very different lives,” she started. “I think I have experienced enough to not be unduly shocked, but Nora is young. She is a sweet girl, and one who has not had the chance to know much of the world.”

The cup was back at his lips again. “Should I pretend to be something other than what I am?” he asked. “To preserve that ignorance?” Holding her gaze, he threw back the rest of the rum. “The world was no so kind to you or I.”

“I do not believe this is all that you are,” she answered. “Once, I did, but then you were different. Kind.”

He laughed then, but it was a bitter sound. “I must be a disappointment to you.”

“No,” Abigail said quietly. “I am glad to find you alive.” There was a brief silence, the look in his eyes unreadable in a way that made her heart pound. He looked away.

“I never looked for news of you,” he said. “I knew what it would be — a proper husband for Lady Ashe, and a rightful hatred for everything that we were — my brothers and me.”

“That’s not what happened,” she said. She did not hate them. She had been shocked, she had been bewildered, she had been angry, she had been consumed by grief for all who had been caught up in this senselessness. But she had not hated them.

He looked back at her, his eyes lingering on her hands, where she wore no rings. His hand — callused and rough — touched hers where it rested on the arm of her chair, and it brought back lingering memories of other touches in the days aboard the _Revenge_. His steadying hand at her back when she stumbled against the movement of the ship, his firm grip helping her down into the longboat that would carry her to Carolina’s shore. One night, when she could not sleep for restlessness, she had seen him at the rail and joined him there in the starlight. Sometimes she could still feel the ghost of his fingertips traveling the curve of her cheek down to her lips— before he had abruptly turned and left.

She turned her palm up to take his hand properly — he tensed, startled, but then it melted away. In the flickering firelight he looked more like the man from her memory, the one who had once sat across from her in the darkened galley, who had once looked at her in a way that had sparked something to life, deep inside. “What has happened to you?” she asked in a whisper.

“Life,” he said, and she caught but a glimpse of the depths his eyes now held.

A commotion outside shattered the moment of renewed understanding between them, and he pulled his hand away as the door opened and Jim Hawkins returned with an unruly looking man in tow.

“Bill,” said the unfamiliar man. “My old friend.” But the sneer that rent his scarred face held no sign of fondness, and Billy jumped to his feet, lurching to steady himself even as he groped for a sword that was not at his side. “I’ve only come to pass along a message.”

Abigail’s eyes darted between the two men, feeling quite useless as a small folded square of paper was pressed into Billy’s hand. While he stood, still and staring, the strange man slipped away.

She shouldn’t reach out and touch him, not with young Jim standing right there, so she moved closer and placed her hand next to his on the back of the chair. His knuckles were white where he gripped it, and his face had gone blank and pale.

“Billy,” she said gently, hoping to break him out of his stupor, and he shook his head, turning away from her as he opened the slip of paper.

His chest expanded with a deep breath, then another, and then suddenly he was in motion. “I must go,” he said abruptly, stalking towards the stairs. He had not quite crossed the room when he collapsed.

Something between a yelp and a shriek tore from Abigail’s throat, and she rushed to his side. He did not move. She put a hand to his cheek, and his eyes did not see. Jim Hawkins was there on the ground beside her, pulling apart the collar of Billy’s shirt to give him air — Abigail found Billy’s large hand, pressed her fingers to his wrist, searching for a pulse but—

“Nothing,” she whispered. She blinked, but the world seemed slow and dull around her — as if everything was happening in another room, and she could only sit and watch, helpless.

A stifled sob sounded next to her, and she blinked again. Jim sat back on his heels now, pressing his hands to his mouth. “What—?” he asked, but the rest of the question never formed. He went to look for his mother, calling out for her, leaving Abigail on the parlor floor, clutching Billy Bones’s lifeless hand.

He should not be alone, she thought.

As she laced her fingers with Billy’s, she felt the rough edge of paper dig into her palm — the note that had made him decide to leave. She hesitated only a moment before plucking it free one-handed, so she did not have to let him go.

A black spot, drawn roughly in charcoal, was in the center of the page. Confused, she lowered it to cast a searching look over Billy, as if he could answer the questions she longed to ask.

When she glanced back at the page, though, she thought the spot had gotten bigger, swelling towards the edges of the paper.

When she blinked, it was no longer made of charcoal, and it was spreading over her hands. Dark as her dreams, deep and unending as the ocean, terrifying as the emptiness in Ned Low’s eye. She tried to scramble away from it, stumbling backward like a startled crab, but it followed, swallowing up the room and soaking into her dress like ink. Her body numbed where it touched her — she could be missing the limbs and not know any different — and as it came to engulf her head, she felt fear.

Then she felt nothing.

 


	2. Chapter 2

She rose to consciousness, not all at once, but slowly, painfully. Her thoughts ran sluggish, like molasses on a cold day, and a point behind her eyes throbbed until she was aware of little else. She groaned and shifted where she lay — she had no strength to roll over, and her eyes hurt too much to open.

Pain gnawed at her stomach, growling, aching, and unrelenting, and it was a feeling so unfamiliar that it took her a moment to realize it was hunger. She hadn’t felt this in years, not since the day she woke up in the stone cell under Fort Nassau so starved that she had hesitated only a moment before setting upon the maggoty bread Vane’s crew had left her.

When she let her arm drop to the floor, it felt wrong. It was cold stone — but the Benbow’s parlor was smooth wood, she remembered, and she had collapsed in front of the fire.  _Billy_ — the memory of his slack, still face appeared in her mind’s eye— Good god, had Nora seen it? Panicked, she opened her eyes to the stab of daylight. 

The light hadn’t been so bright, she thought, just a moment before. It had been cloudy, but this light, though far away, was strong. How long had she lain unconscious on the ground? After a moment of pained blinking, she located the source of the light — a high-set window in the small stone room. A forebodingly familiar stone room.

She lifted her head. There was no body at her feet. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. There were no stairs up to the room where Nora would have hidden herself — instead, there was the door, wood and metal. She knew it would be locked. When she turned to look behind her, there was a hunk of bread sitting on a tin plate. Upon closer inspection, she was not surprised to find it infested with maggots.

_A dream?_ she wondered, tapping at the plate, trying to spin it like a top on the uneven stone floor. It didn’t quite make a full turn before stuttering to a stop. The maggots writhed at the movement, and she recoiled. Her dreams were never quite so realistic — nightmares had called her to this cell before, but then she had not felt cold stone, only fear. The very air had roiled with malice and the ghosts of dead men had haunted every shadow.

These shadows were merely shadows, and nothing particular was in the air besides the scent of the sea.

It took far too much effort to push herself up to sit against the wall. When she was mostly upright, she hugged her legs up against her chest and rested her head on her knees. Her face was cold and clammy, and she couldn’t stop shaking — if this was real, food would help, but this wasn’t real — couldn’t be real. She would wake up, and it would be gone. It couldn’t be worth eating _that_ again.

She still sat curled up like that when Captain Vane entered. She stared up at him in morbid fascination. When she had heard the news of his hanging, she hadn’t known what to think. To hear men speak of him, he was little more than a brute. Perhaps his crew was like that, but he hadn’t been cruel to her — not like Ned Low. He had been honest with her, he had not gone out of his way to cause her pain. Yes, he had threatened to kill her; she knew he was capable of it, and she knew he wouldn’t have hesitated to do so if her father crossed him. Yet she also remembered the look on his face when Eleanor had locked the gate and pulled her deeper into the tunnels — fury, shot through with very real pain.

She remembered that face every time she thought of the dead man.

This memory of him — for memory it must be — was sharp. Here he was vibrant, alive; there was no pain, no anger.

But he was waiting for her to say something. How had this happened, the first time?

“My father will pay what you want,” she said, fumbling.

He left pen and paper for her, and departed.

She left them there on the stone.

She laid herself down. She was too weak, and her head spinning too wildly to stay upright. Perhaps sleep, in a dream, would return her to true wakefulness.

* * *

 

In the morning, she was awakened by the world shaking and thundering around her — explosions, stone crashing and falling. She scrambled back away from the outer wall, fueled by adrenaline and fear more than anything else, as her mind struggled to put the pieces together. She was still in the Nassau cell, not on the road to Bristol; still alone. There was no Nora, but there were no corpses, either.

She had woken like this the other time, too — she hadn't known it then, that Captain Flint had used the warship’s guns to attack the fort. She hadn’t known that the attack had come from the opposite side of the structure — her own cell far enough from the danger. She had thought the world was ending, convinced she would die violently, crushed by crumbling stone.

Now, as it had then, it felt like she couldn't possibly survive. But this wasn't real. It was a dream, she couldn't be hurt, she thought, even as she pressed her hand to her belly, still squirming with hunger. That pain had only increased. Couldn't one feel pain, in dreams?

She sat, shaking, huddled in the corner of her cell, slipping in and out of consciousness. It had quieted now, and the beam of sunlight from the little high window slowly made its way across the room. Would she be forced to relive this — every experience? Was this a dream or some strange new reality?

Or was she in hell? A hell of her own making, born of her guilt — the thoughts she had never let herself voice in all of these years. Would she be relieve every experience, every mistake? Would she be forced to watch Lady Hamilton die, over and over, for eternity?

She shuddered, tasting bile rising in her throat — her entire body heaved, but nothing came up. There was nothing.

There was nothing.

She was dozing when Eleanor Guthrie stole into her cell that night, and jolted awake at the scrape of the door.

"You are no longer a hostage, Abigail," she said now, as she had then.

But this time, Abigail did not move, did not answer. Was this a dream? Was it hell? Or was it some strange new reality? Abigail was beginning to doubt — it felt so real. But here she was, and here was Eleanor Guthrie. Formidable, strong Eleanor Guthrie.

Dead. Eleanor Guthrie was ten years dead.

She must break the cycle — was she in control of her own destiny, or not? It would be unconscionable not to try. So many people dead — Lady Hamilton, who had done nothing. Her father, who had done something. Eleanor Guthrie — could even she be traced back to Abigail's hand?

She should have warned Flint earlier. She had waited until they were underway, on the water; she had waited until she saw them as _men._ Her father, all the people of Charles Town did not see them as men, would _never_ see them as men—

But at the time, she had not much cared. Each of their faces held the shadow of Ned Low, a masked monster lurking behind each smile. She had known what would happen. She had hoped her father would see and spare the remnants of his old friends, but some part of her had _known_ —

Or should have known.

As long as there was a shadow of Captain Flint, her father would not see. The people of Charles Town, fed this narrative for years, might never see.

She should have known. It was not only the man who had held the blade, who had fired the bullet, who was culpable. Their blood also stained her soul.

She shivered. Eleanor was looking at her now with pity.

"I'll get you out of here. You'll go back to your father, I promise you—" she produced a letter, neatly folded. "Lady Hamilton is here— do you remember Lady Hamilton?"

Abigail took the letter. "Yes. Yes, I remember her."

"She is here, and she is a friend. She wants to rescue you from this place." Eleanor looked around at cold stone.

"I know," Abigail said.

Her name was written on the outside of the letter, in Lady Hamilton's fine script. She did not open it — if she did, what would be written inside? Accusations— Truth? Her sins, listed in blood?

_You killed me_ , the paper whispered — Abigail shuddered and dropped it.

"Abigail," Eleanor knelt beside her now. "Don't be afraid. I'll take you from this place, and you'll be among friends, and they will take you to your father—"

"No," she said. She must stop it. She must break the cycle. Even in a dream she could not condemn Lady Hamilton, all of those people, to their fates. She could not see it— She could not relive it—

Eleanor looked her in the face, her lips parted for a moment before she began to speak. "It's not safe for you here."

"Is it safe anywhere?"

"Yes — come down to Nassau with me. Lady Hamilton is waiting for you, and Captain Flint will protect you."

"Flint." She shivered. That man, his pains, his demons — she had long tried to understand him, searching every memory and reconstructing what she could from Father's letters and papers. She had an idea of what haunted him, and though it horrified her to think on his actions, she could not find it in herself to blame him, not entirely. "I know Flint."

"I know what people say about Flint," Eleanor said. "He's a friend — he's no madman. He was once a friend to your father."

"Once."

"He won't hurt you—"

"That's not what I fear. So many people have died."

"We don't have much time— Abigail—" Eleanor was starting to get agitated, glancing back towards the door.

"No."

Eleanor stood and tugged at her arm, trying to force her to rise.

"No," she said again. "Go — don't endanger yourself for me."

Eleanor paused. 

"Someone will come," Abigail said. "And then what will all this be for?"

"I won't leave you here," Eleanor said, gathering up her skirts. "We'll find another way, and we'll be back. Flint is a _friend,_ think on that. Read it, what Lady Hamilton has written. He won't hurt you."

Abigail nodded. "Go."

The door locked again, and Abigail let out a long breath. _There_. She had fixed it. No one would die. Relief guided her back to sleep, easy as drifting away on the tide.

* * *

 

At dawn, the door scraped open again, wakening her. When she lifted her head, Billy Bones was crouched by her side, breathing heavily and covered in blood.

_No_ — _No_ — _No_ — Still dead—

Her hand went up to cup his face, and he grabbed her wrist, stopping her just as her fingertips brushed his cheek.

She locked her eyes to his, searching. "Are you hurt?"

His brows hunched down, confused, and his eyes dropped to where his side was soaked in blood. When he looked back at her face, she realized— He did not know her. This was not the Billy she had met— This was not the dead man. This was the one from her memories— young, and without the darkness and callousness that had settled into him.

And he did not know her. "It's not my blood," he said, and when he met her gaze again, his eyes were hard and his voice carried the tone of authority. "Come with us."

Both men at the door looked familiar, from what she could tell from the single glance she gave them before returning her attention to Billy.

"No," she told him, steeling herself to project determination, defiance, rather than fear.

His jaw clenched, unclenched, settled into exasperation. "We don't exactly have time," he said, looking up at the ceiling, and then she noticed the sounds of battle.

Crashes, shouts, screams, pain. It all echoed down the corridors, distant — for now. Oh, Lord above. This was new, this was different — was this real? She shivered.

"What's happening out there?" she asked. This was not why she had stayed behind in the fort. She had wanted to save lives, not spend different ones in Nassau's sand. The people of Charles Town were not expendable, but neither were the men of Nassau. Fear stole the warmth from her body and made the room spin — or was it guilt? Or simply her ill-advised refusal to eat?

"We don't have time," he repeated, and hauled her to her feet by the elbows. "Can you walk?"

She snatched her arms back away from him. "No," she said again, louder this time. She would not lead Lady Hamilton to her death a second time.

A sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl left him — he simmered with coiled energy for just a moment before he surged forward, his large hands settling around her waist as he lifted her in the air. An utterly undignified squeak burst from her throat, and she clutched at his forearms for balance. For just a moment, their eyes met as he hesitated. His bewildered expression gave away that he had not quite considered what he would do next. She might have laughed if she had the breath — he was so close, and though he tried to be gentle, his hands had squeezed the air from her lungs.

One of the men behind them snorted with laughter.

Billy settled her over his shoulder. He was so warm that her body molded to his instinctively, and a stray thought flittered through her mind — this was the most they had ever touched. Her entire front was pressed against him and his hands, uncertain of how to steady her, had swept over her before settling at her knees. _Not useful_ , she berated herself. There were more important things to be worrying about.

Even as she braced her arms against his back to try and twist away from his grip, faintly registering how his muscles moved under her hands as he shifted to keep hold of her. She stilled, slowly, her head pounding. She was still weak. She should have eaten — even that mass, more maggots than bread.

"We're not here to hurt you," he said even as his hold on her tightened. "We'll return you to your father."

Her father, who she no longer knew, who had mystified her for years. He taught her to think with reason, to trust what she saw, to always seek the truth. He taught her not to be fooled, not to be swayed by others' influence without due thought. He taught her the importance of friendship and loyalty.

The more she tried to pin down what kind of man he was, the more she found him lacking.

"You are Captain Flint's men?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"Yes," he said, the word gruff and short, as he strode out the cell door into the eerie long corridor. 

Her head turned just enough as they exited to give her a glimpse of the lifeless bodies of two men which flanked the entrance to her cell. Blood pooled under them, spread far over the stone floor. She must have said something, made some noise of shock, as she arched to try and take in the entire scene--

"Don't look," Billy said, but it was too late. She could not look away; it struck her as disrespectful. This _was_ real. She had not meant for it to happen, but now these men were dead. Had they deserved it?

This was the price of her foolishness, paid in blood.

They turned the corner, putting the dead men from sight. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to compose herself. When she looked up again, Billy's men were following, intentionally in her view.

"Don't mind him, miss," one of them — bald and bearded, but with kind eyes — said. "He doesn't know how to handle girls," he stage-whispered exaggeratedly.

"Shut it," Billy said, inspiring laughter. The other — the quiet Asian man who had always piqued Abigail's curiosity — made a rude gesture at Billy’s back.

"What?" the first said. "That's not how you carry a _lady,_ Billy," he scolded.

"Fuck off," Billy grumbled, but once they had passed through the metal gate to the tunnels, forced it closed, and locked it behind them, he shifted her into his arms. Pressed closely against him, she could feel the breath enter his lungs, the steady rhythm of his heart. He was alive, and that was a comfort to cling to.

She matched her breaths to his.

"Is that better, miss?" the man asked again.

When she looked up, her eyes caught the long line of Billy's throat, followed it up to his angular jaw and the stubble there. He was focused ahead, purposefully ignoring — or perhaps pretending to ignore — what they said.

She swallowed. "Yes, much better."

"See?" He slapped Billy on the back. "You've got to treat them _gentle._ "

Abigail closed her eyes again, feeling heat rush to her face; his arms clenched and relaxed around her. He said nothing, though, only marched on faster through the tunnel.

"Flint will not find what he seeks in Charles Town," she said, as they emerged from the tunnel into the light. How much was she supposed to know about Flint's — McGraw's — plans? How much was she supposed to know about her own father?

"That may be," Billy said, "but there is too much at stake to not try."

She nodded, growing too tired to argue, and rested her head against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and everything :) I am really excited to be writing this even though I feel like I'm flailing, lol. I never post things without having a first draft written, so this has me really nervous.

**Author's Note:**

> So... I have about three chapters actually planned out, and an end, but everything between is a whole lot of ???????????
> 
> ...let's just wing it together, I guess?


End file.
